Cole.
Floating. Limp. Eyes closed. The camera still strapped to him. Still streaming.
He’s not moving.
Oh fuck. Why isn’t he moving?
Then—
A blur.
Blaze’s inked arm pushes into frame, grabbing him hard. The image explodes back into daylight, water spraying the lens, and Blaze’s voice rips through the feed:
“HEY—hey bro—stay with me!”
I’m running.
One word drives every step.
Cole.
Blaze is waist-deep as sand blurs under my feet, hauling Cole backwards through the shallows with one arm, the camera raised in his other hand.
“Move. Move!” I shove past people as they gather.
By the time I hit the waterline, Blaze has hauled him onto the sand.
Cole’s not moving. My knees slam down beside him.
“911! Somebody call 911 right now!” I shout.
The crowd responds. Phones up everywhere—some dialing, some filming.
Sienna tilts his head back, checking his airway, fingers sure and steady like she’s done this a thousand times. And God, I am so grateful for her competence.
I press my hand to Cole’s leg. I don’t know why. I just need to touch him.
“Come on,” I whisper. “Come on…”
Blaze continues to film, voice shaking but pushing through. “We’re still live, dudes. Cole’s out, Sienna’s on him. She’s got this, she’s trained… Stay with us.”
Sienna leans down.
Two rescue breaths.
Waits.
The silence is the worst thing I’ve ever heard.
“He’s not breathing.” She locks her hands over his sternum. “Starting CPR.”
“Hartwell—” My voice breaks. “Cole, can you hear me? Breathe. Please. Come back to me.”
Sienna shakes her head between sets. “This isn’t right. He wasn’t under long enough. I don’t hear any fluid.” Her eyes narrow. “He sounds constricted.”
I look at his neck.
Hives.
